by Andrea Speed
He had expected a lot of potential responses. That wasn’t on the list. “What?”
“You think I’ve never seen YouTube? I’m old, I’m not dead.”
“You got all that from videos?”
“No. Some from past tests, some from general assumptions on my part. The virus is in your DNA, Roan, and not as an invader but as a cohabitant. You are one strange fellow.”
“Isn’t that an understatement?”
“A bit. But don’t take that as bad. You’re remarkable. A once-in-a-lifetime biological event.” She paused to take a drag off her cigarette. “Wait, what’s the world population again—six billion or some such number? Okay, you’re technically a three or four in a lifetime event, but most infecteds don’t live that long.”
“Which is a bit of the problem I’m having now.”
“Hmm? You think you’re dying?”
“I’m wondering why I’m not. I should be dead. I’m almost forty.”
She clicked her tongue impatiently. “Jesus Christ, only you could find the dark streak in a silver lining. So you could die any second. So what? Who isn’t always at risk of death? You get up in the morning, you could slip in the shower and die. You could step out and get hit by a bus. You could get E. coli from your burger or MRSA from the gym. You could get flesh-eating bacteria after getting a paper cut. Some meshuggenah could go postal while you’re in line to buy stamps. So fucking what? Live while you can. Don’t worry about what could be—live in the now, you stupid schmuck.”
That made him smile. “Is that what you do?”
“Of course I do. Why do you think I’m still sucking on these cancer sticks?”
“I thought it was nicotine addiction.”
“Well, that too. But it sounds better if I make it seem like a choice.”
“Do you think you can give that death speech to Dylan?”
“Man up and talk to your own damn boyfriend.”
Fair enough. Doctor Rosenberg also gave him the name and number of a therapist she thought he might want to talk to. Yes, he was technically alone among infecteds, but she thought talking to someone about his unique predicament would be good for him, and besides, with doctor-patient confidentiality, there was no way she could share the information about him with anyone. He didn’t like therapists and she knew it, but she reminded him he was a miserable, depressed bastard and probably needed to talk to someone. It was another fair point.
He had just about convinced himself to get off his ass and do something when there was a knock at the door. Had Dee finished already and come back to administer the ass beating? He was tempted not to answer the door, but it spurred him off the couch, so he did. He was deeply surprised to find that it was starting to sprinkle, the sun occluded by temporary clouds, and that it was Scott at his front door in a pair of jeans, a Flyers logo T-shirt, and a worn-looking brown leather jacket. He looked as casually, shockingly handsome as he had in only underwear and bedhead hair. “Hey,” he said casually.
“Hey,” Roan said, only realizing he was still shirtless when Scott’s eyes glided over his tattoos again. “What are you doing here?”
“Grey thinks you’re mad at him,” he said matter-of-factly and pulled a piece of paper out of his front pocket. “So he sent me over with a check.”
“What? Oh, fuck.” Grey had left about six messages that he hadn’t listened to yet. He wasn’t honestly sure if he was mad at him or not; more disappointed, really. “Um, come in.” As he waved him in and held the door open, he still took the check. Hey, who didn’t need the money? In the day of all-over cameras, intrusive software, and economic free fall, people weren’t so eager to hire private detectives anymore. He needed to get the money where he could.
“Why does he think I’m mad at him?” Roan asked, wondering if Scott would honestly tell him.
He shrugged and looked around the living room as Roan closed the door. “He wouldn’t say. But I know him and figured he was rude without realizing it.”
“He wasn’t. I just felt he might have been disingenuous about his reasons for hiring me.” He opened the check and glanced at the sum. Yeah, that would cover his fee and expenses.
Scott gave him a curious look. Roan could now see he had a faint, ghostly scar just under his left eye. You could only see it in a certain light and when you were close up to him. He should have figured that you couldn’t play hockey for so long without getting visibly injured. But the ghost scar just made him look hotter, the bastard. “What d’ya mean?”
He shook his head dismissively. “I’ll leave that to Grey. He can tell you or not.”
He raised an eyebrow at that. “Client confidentiality?”
“Something like that.” Roan tossed the check on his kitchenette counter and wondered if he should ask. It didn’t matter, he should really just leave it, but he asked anyways. “Did Grey go back to bed after I left?”
Scott shrugged again, and from the brief grimace, must have found the question odd. “I got no idea. I went back to bed, remember? I slept until after noon, and when I got up he was gone.” He was so casual about it, it most likely wasn’t a lie. “Oh, speaking of which, he’s talking to the coach about hiring you to teach the youngsters some fighting techniques.”
“I don’t know any techniques that could be applied to hockey fights.”
“Doesn’t really matter. He said he thought you were anticipating his moves before he made them. That’s always useful.”
Roan leaned against the kitchenette counter and sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s flattering, but I can’t teach anyone anything. If I did anticipate anything, it was due to being infected.”
That made Scott scratch his head and look adorably befuddled. “Uh, how?”
“Catlike reflexes. As my adrenaline levels rise, my senses heighten.”
Scott gave him a brief smirk that quickly collapsed as he realized Roan wasn’t joking. “You’re not kidding.” Not a question.
“Nope.”
“Umm… huh. I didn’t think infected people reacted like that. I mean—”
“They don’t. I’m abnormal.”
“Why?”
What an excellent question. “I don’t know. I was a virus child whose DNA didn’t react badly to the virus’s incorporation.”
“That’s it?”
Roan was forced to shrug. “They don’t know why I am the way I am. Maybe I was exposed to gamma radiation or hummus in the womb, and that made all the difference. My parents aren’t around to ask.”
Scott blinked, as if he’d said this angrily. He hadn’t, but it seemed to strike him that way. “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t know.”
“It’s okay. I don’t care. It’s hard to miss people you’ve never met.”
Scott nodded but looked a bit uncomfortable. “Whoa. Grey’s right, you’re pretty hard core.”
Because he didn’t have any feelings for his parents? If Scott only knew the whole story, about how a succession of shitty foster homes had taught him parents were severely overrated, as were heterosexuality and marriage. (“Sacred” his rosy red ass.) “He thinks that only because I kicked his ass.”
“Well, that helps.”
“Why did that impress him so much? If it happened on the ice, he would have found a way to leave me as a puddle of blood and teeth.”
“Yeah, but that never happens—no one kicks Grey’s ass. He’s not only big, but he’s a decent boxer. I kind of wished I had been there to see it.”
“The coach probably should have filmed it.”
That made him smile. “Yeah. Actually, the whole team would have loved to watch. Could’ve made a night of it.”
“Agree to buy me dinner, and I’ll reenact it live. Assuming Grey is willing.”
Scott was still smiling, in a sort of mischievous way that made him look about seventeen. He seemed like a nice, slightly milquetoast Canadian guy, a good team captain, but Roan was willing to bet that secretly this guy was hell on wheels. Or skates, as the case might
be. “I’m sure he would be. He’s very competitive.”
“That makes sense, being a sports guy and all.”
Scott glanced upstairs, nodding his head in that direction before approaching him. “Boyfriend here?”
That momentarily threw him. “Um, no, not at the moment.”
“Too bad. I was gonna ask him about that tattoo.”
“Oh, right.”
“I was thinking of getting something like a phoenix, but is that too common?”
“Depends on the design.”
Scott was close enough to touch his tiger tattoo again, which he stroked softly with his thumb. “I’m not sure where to get it, though. How much does it hurt to get one on your chest?”
Roan shrugged, and couldn’t help but notice that Scott was way too close. He wasn’t just invading his space, he was close enough to walk right through him. “Not that much,” Roan told him, wondering if this meant what he thought it did. “No matter where you get it, a tattoo is gonna hurt.”
“I’m a hockey player. I can take a little pain,” he admitted, then confirmed what Roan suspected: Scott kissed him. Not just a peck on the cheek, but a full-on, sloppy, wet kiss.
Okay—he had found the gay player on the team. He now owed Dylan an apology and twenty bucks.
18
Daredevil
Roan knew he should have pushed Scott away immediately, but he didn’t. In his defense, Scott was a great kisser, and when Roan grabbed the back of his head, he discovered his hair was silky soft. It was actually kind of nice.
But Roan only allowed one kiss—well, Scott kissed him and he kissed him back; as far as he was concerned, it was one kiss total—before he reluctantly pushed him away. “Okay, that answers that,” Roan said, keeping Scott at arm’s length. “You’re a deliberate cocktease.”
Scott looked amused at the accusation. “Excuse me?”
“That morning when I dropped by—that was an act. You were putting on a show.”
“No, I’d just woken up. Although I have to admit your chest was better than caffeine.” Scott let his fingers trail down Roan’s torso, stopping only at the waistband of his sweatpants. Barely. He could feel the heat of his palm through the fabric.
“Does Grey know you’re gay?”
Scott chuckled faintly as Roan picked up Scott’s hand and moved it away from his groin. “I’m not gay. I just like variety.”
He rolled his eyes in exasperation. “God, save me from hot bisexuals.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“My husband was one. He was also a Canadian as well. Is being bi a Canadian thing I’m unaware of?”
“Judging from my high school experiences, I’m gonna say no.”
Kind of what he thought, but he had to be sure. “Does Grey know about your love of variety then?”
Scott seemed to get the idea that there was going to be no more making out right now and took a step back, crossing his arms over his chest and cocking a hip in a way that suggested he wasn’t sure whether or not to kill him or kiss him. “I dunno. We’ve never talked about it.”
“What about the team?”
“What about them? Look, I know some guys aren’t gonna be comfortable changing out or showering around me if they know I like guys too, so it’s not somethin’ I’m gonna say around just anyone. I mean, I like my women exotic and I like my guys older, but I wouldn’t count on them to believe me.”
“Older,” Roan repeated, feeling his ego deflate ever so slightly. “You’re a silver queen?”
Scott just stared at him. “I have no idea what that means.”
“You chase old guys.”
“I don’t chase. I don’t have to chase.” He grinned at this admission. “And I don’t go after guys in old-age homes. I just like guys older than me… thirty-ish, forty-ish. Guys who know what they want, who aren’t interested in game playing. And, um, I didn’t mean hockey.”
“Yeah, I know what you meant.” Roan rubbed his eyes and tried to figure out how he felt about this. Basically, by not telling anyone he was bi, he was remaining in the closet. But then again, he did play a macho sport, among macho guys, and it might hamper his career if word got out that he was a fag (even just a half fag). Yes, it probably had some gay boys in its ranks it didn’t even know about, and someone needed to be the first one out, but no one said it had to be Scott. Oy, this was difficult. Yes, he’d been out all his life, but he couldn’t say it didn’t bring him a whole ton of shit that he wouldn’t have gotten if he had just pretended to be straight. It wasn’t up to him to make life judgments for other people.
“You think I’m a closet case.”
“I didn’t say that.”
Scott met his gaze, and it was merciless. “You’re thinking it.”
“No.”
His clear blue eyes narrowed, and they had the frostiness that many an opponent must have seen from time to time on the ice. It was wonderfully nasty; it gave him a minor chill. Scott would only last three seconds in a fight against him, but it would be a bloody, hard three seconds. “You think you’re the only one who can spot a liar?”
Roan threw up his hands in surrender. “I’m not lying. I’m not going to make that decision for you. You don’t want to spread it around, I get it, I know why. It’s not a decision I would make for me, but I’m an asshole who doesn’t give a flying fuck what people think of me. Obviously. And I have no career to speak of, since I pissed it away a long time ago. So you’re making the right decision, if I’m anything to go by.” He turned away and retreated behind the kitchenette, glad he had somewhere to hide, and glad he was so sedated that he probably couldn’t get a hard-on right now without help from a hydraulic lift. Although Scott was just the kind of guy who might be able to get through the drugs.
Scott frowned at him, seemingly aware of his cowardly escape, but his softened expression seemed to suggest he forgave him for it. “Were you just putting yourself down there? Fuck, man, how brave are you? You’re the bravest guy I’ve ever met.”
“How do you figure?”
“’Cause, like you just said, you don’t give a shit—you’re you, and if people don’t like it, they can fuck off. And I’m not only talking about the gay thing. I mean, you’re infected.”
“Thanks for the news flash.”
Scott gave him an evil scowl for that, and Roan had to admit to himself he deserved it. “There are a whole bunch of people who still think if an infected brushes up against them in the elevator, they’ll get it. People freak out, and most infected people, unless they’re one of those church people or something, stay quiet about it. You don’t hide, and that’s pretty cool.”
Roan just shrugged. It wasn’t cool, it was who he was, but he knew what Scott meant. Infecteds were the modern-day lepers—you admitted it at your own peril. He already felt like a leper—being orphaned, unwanted, stranded in the foster care system, a medical oddity, and gay—why the fuck did one more thing matter? After a certain point, it didn’t matter that the sinking ship had leaky faucets and a shitty buffet.
He dry washed his face, and wondered if that was the point where he went from being odd to being totally fucked up. Did it even matter? When he looked back at Scott, he was giving him a lopsided, sad smile. “So I guess you don’t wanna fuck me, huh?”
“Of course I want to fuck you. Straight guys would want to fuck you. But my boyfriend’s already fed up with me; this would be the final nail in the coffin.”
“He wouldn’t hafta know.”
“I would know. That’s enough.”
Scott shrugged, grimacing slightly. He didn’t like it, but he had to live with it. “You know where to find me in case you change your mind. Although make it quick. It looks like Tank and I are going to be moved to the Bruins’ farm team soon.”
“Hey, the Bruins. Congrats.”
He shrugged again, but this time there was a kind of assumed nonchalance about it, like he was trying very hard to be cool when in fact he was very
tense about it. “It’s not the big leagues yet. But it’s close.”
